


Your body is my temple

by nikaris



Series: Shell games [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Butchering of computer science, Clay Lives, Desmond is a martyr in more ways than one, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, My dead sons, Nobody is Dead, What Have I Done, they swear a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:08:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikaris/pseuds/nikaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay deserves better, Desmond realizes. </p><p>In which Clay meets Desmond far earlier than anticipated and that makes all the difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your body is my temple

 

Time moves differently in the Black Room.

Clay is made constantly aware of this fact. For all of the four months that Clay knows to have passed, it seems much longer in the vast emptiness of the Animus’ Black Room.

He had struggled with it. Faced with his new existence inside, Clay would be lying if he admitted to being _okay,_ even if he had more or less cheated death. Nonetheless, he has his ways of coping—even if he feels like teetering on the edge on some days.

It helps that he has some power in the Animus. He keeps himself occupied with the given limited controls, learning the Black Room’s code and to the extent to which he can manipulate it. It’s an arduous affair, but Clay is undeterred, taking his time to learn everything that he can, because how much was time worth to a dead man?

That was not to say that Clay spends the rest of his time doing a whole lot of nothing after he’s mastered the Black Room’s language. Please, he isn’t going to squander the remainder of his existence twiddling his thumbs. No, no, there are better things to do—more _productive_ things for him to work on.

Meditating is easily in the top 3 of his list. It’s an activity that had worked in life (Clay will forever praise his therapist for introducing him to it) and Clay is glad that even what and where he is now, it helps collect the jagged pieces of his psyche into something vaguely manageable. 

Yoga is a good second on that list. Now, Clay doesn’t know a lick of yoga, but he does know a ‘downward dog’ and all other yoga positions have to be a variation of that, right? So that usually takes over a couple hours of his day, doing Variation #111 (he calls this one, the ‘Downward Dongle,’ but its interchangeable to Variation #72, the ‘Suck My Dick, Jesus’) while overlooking the 45 minute loop of perfect skies that Animus Island offers. 

Yet, Clay’s favorite and top of the list _has_ to be drawing therapeutic art on the beach because really, _who knew_ that AI recreations of your consciousness retained some semblance of your emotional state at the time of creation? (Not _Original Clay_ , that’s for sure.) Considering the fact that the original had had one foot planted across Crazyville county lines, it pretty much guarantees himself some baggage.

Which sucks, yeah, but Clay can deal. Drawing keeps him grounded—makes him remember his purpose. 

He rises from the sand to survey the landscape. 

To anyone else, the symbols carved onto the beach are nonsensical. If Clay squints a little, maybe tilts his head, covers an eye like a pirate, and lies, then yeah, he can probably say the same, but for someone who has seen the Truth—for someone who has been given a glimpse of _Knowledge_ —that isn’t a luxury he can afford. 

The same goes for his successor, assuming he has found the glyphs by now. 

Clay inwardly sighs, resigned to waiting even though it sucked knowing what was to happen but not particularly knowing _when_ it will happen. 

 _Fuck,_ he’s so _goddamn_ _sick_ of this.

Clay releases a terse breath and forces himself down into the sand. He crosses his legs and pushing himself to relax, deeply inhales the scentless, fake air. He controls every breath until the keening panic inside him abates to an endurable ache.

He is fine. He is okay.

_Breathe in._

He just has to wait a little while longer.

_Breathe out._

And this business will all be over.

_Even though he wants to getoutGetOutGETOUT—_

It can’t have been long that Clay sits there, adrift in a forced calm when it happens—coming like a ripple, but feeling like a punch to his gut. His eyes snap open, the _sizzle_ in the air sounding like a hiss in his ears. His breath catches in his throat.

He’s here, Clay knows. The Black Room is practically _vibrating_ at the new arrival.

 _Desmond_ is here.

This is the moment he was waiting for—the moment where his and Juno’s mechanisms collide and the future that Juno had shown him commences. He should be happy—thrilled even— to finally be out of stagnant water but all Clay can feel is dread because something is _wrong_. 

And as Clay scrambles around one of the many obelisks, sliding down a hill to where the source of the Black Room’s disgruntlement stands—gawking, lost, confused—he sees why.

Desmond Miles is _young._

It’s boggling and not _right._ Miles is supposed to be mentally fucked up at this point. Desmond doesn’t look weighed down by the world. He doesn’t have that wary or haunted hood over his eyes that Clay sees every time in a goddamn mirror.

He looks _innocent_.  

_What in the hell is going on?!_

“I was hoping you could tell me that.” The hesitant words are said more like a question than a statement, making Clay realize he’d spoken out loud.

“Are you uh, supposed to be my ancestor, Alty-air?” Desmond asks, regarding Clay unsurely. His hoodie is white, Clay notes idly. It is yet another tally on his, ‘Shit-that’s-not-right’ list. Does that mean his mind isn’t fragmented then…?

“It’s _Altair_.” Clay corrects when he finally manages to find his voice. He licks his dry lips; a sinking feeling forming in the pit of his stomach when he tries to pinpoint exactly how far along his successor is in the Animus Project. “And I’m definitely not your ancestor.” 

He thinks back to when he’d seen Juno and the taunting visions she had shown him to come. This hadn’t happened in her carefully crafted timeline. This is all wrong. How had it gone amiss? 

“Definitely not.” Clay breathes and catches himself on a boulder as his knees goes slack, half mindful of the startled look cast his way as he cradles his head in his hands. “Well, _shit_.” 

Everything that Clay has done had been made with that First Civilization bitch’s timetable in mind. He’d known all along that her laying it all out to him had been intentional. It had been her plan for him to use what she’d shown him—the _bleak future,_ can you believe it—to make his own plans that would only serve to aid hers in the long run. It had hardly been a subtle ploy but Clay had played into her hands anyways because doing _nothing_ was just as bad.

But this is _not_ what she’d shown him. Desmond is supposed to have found his glyphs, experienced Ezio’s memories, and _killed her_ before meeting him on Animus Island. Juno had sounded so sure of herself. So then how in the world is Subject 17 here, _now_?! 

“Wait, how do you know I’m Subject 17?” Desmond asks suddenly and Clay realizes too little too late that he’d spoken out loud once again. “Who—?”

“I’m like you,” Clay answers after a second because to hell with it, there is no use hiding it now since he let that slip. “I’m your predecessor.”   

Clay can practically see the gears turning in Desmond’s head as he digests the information and guesses, “You’re… Subject 16?” 

Clay chuckles even though the label leaves his skin crawling and wrist aching. “They didn’t bother telling you my name?”

“Well, they didn’t bother telling me much of anything.” Desmond retorts sourly. “I don’t even know what the Doc Asshole expects me to do in here.” 

“ _Doc Asshole—_ “ Clay’s chortle abruptly cuts off as the rest of Desmond’s words sink in. “Wait… This is your first time in the Animus?” At Desmond’s nod of confirmation, Clay shakes his head in disbelief. “You really _are_ a greenhorn…” He murmurs faintly, “Christ.”

“Still absolutely confused here.” Desmond pipes in with some annoyance. “Mind telling me where we are at least?”

“Somewhere you’re definitely not supposed to be yet.” Clay deadpans and chuckles at the look of exasperation tossed his way.

“It’s called the Black Room.” Clay admits tiredly after a moment of consideration. His plans have pretty much already crashed and burned so at this point, there isn’t really much harm in tossing his successor a bone. Sighing, Clay gets to his feet and beckons with his shoulder, pleased when Desmond takes the hint and follows.

“We’re in the guts of the Animus, the original test program. No memories here, just basic physics and weather simulations.” Clay explains, picking up a stray rock and throwing it into the water to demonstrate. It causes a ripple along the shore. “Our own personal island, you could say.”

“Minus the beach babes.” Desmond mumbles under his breath, which makes Clay snort at the unexpected comment.

“Unfortunately. The Black Room’s not much use for anything save for some data partitioning.” The blonde replies, returning Desmond’s quick grin.

Desmond purses his lips. “So… what am I doing here then?”

Clay shrugs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“And what are _you_ doing here?”

Clay shifts his weight to his heels. “Playing. Learning. Waiting.” He gives Desmond a sidelong glance. “A lot of waiting.”

Desmond frowns. “For what?”

The blonde grins. “Ironically, for—“

A sudden crash—like boulders smashing against each other—and the sporadic flickering of light interrupting the Black Room’s day-cycle causes both Desmond and Clay to jerk in alarm.

Clay only hears with one ear of Desmond’s startled yelp of, _“What in the hell?!”_ as he mentally reaches out into the Black Room’s programming to find out the source. He skims the lines of code in his mind’s eye, noting some crash reports before he sucks in a breath.

“They’re pulling you out.”

Just as he says the words, a glance at Desmond’s panicked form confirms it. He is already faint around the leg area and from the way Desmond is twitching slightly as if privy to multiple conversations, Clay doesn’t have him for long.

Hold up… If this is Desmond’s first time in the Animus…then… 

“It’s a test run.” Clay curses under his breath. If this is Desmond’s first time in the Animus, then that means that Vidic is doing the initial compatibility test. How in the hell that sort of test had landed Desmond in the Black Room instead of the usual white loading space is beyond him, but Clay isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Plans are already forming in his mind. He can work with this.

“Desmond, listen to me!” He grabs onto Desmond’s shoulders, shaking the man until he is sure Desmond is looking at only him. “Listen to me buddy, when you get out, I need you to do something for me, alright?”

Desmond stops short. “Wait, how do you know my name?”

Clay hisses impatiently. They don’t have _time_ for this. Already, the other man is fading into white glyphs and code from the chest down. “Desmond, _listen._ I’ll explain later, but I _really_ need you to do me this favor, okay?” 

Only when Desmond nods—hesitant and wary, but with just the right amount of curiosity that pretty much guarantees it— does Clay lean in close and relay his instructions. It’s a shot in the dark. He isn’t even sure if they had changed anything since he’d last tinkered with their systems, but if there is even the slightest of a _chance_ — 

“Wait, at least tell me your name!” Desmond yells once Clay is finished. He isn’t looking at Clay anymore, having lost his visuals being so far in the process of being pulled out.

“It’s Clay!” Clay calls out because if something goes wrong and this is the last time he is ever going to see someone, well, he at least wants them know his name—to know that he _was here._ The blond steps back to give a half-smiling salute even though he knows Desmond can’t see it. “Clay Kaczmarak!”

* * *

“How in the world did this happen?!” 

Desmond wakes up to the sounds of an angry Dr. Warren Vidic yelling and of panicked excuses from his frightened tech guys. He blinks rapidly, not knowing for a moment where he is before awareness catches up with him and the screen that had been arced over his head retracts to reveal Lucy’s concerned face.

He absentmindedly accepts Lucy’s help as she leads him off the Animus, more interested in the stuttered explanations from one of the techies and the odd ache in his head than whatever Lucy is saying before he pays for it when his legs nearly give out on him. He almost barrels Lucy into the ground if he hadn’t caught himself on the edge of the Animus in time. 

He absently hears Lucy’s started shout of his name and is about to answer when he notices just how _light_ the room was. He glances towards the windows; surprised when he realizes it is still early afternoon. If he hasn’t been in there long, then why does his legs feel like jelly?

The blonde woman’s brow makes a worried arch. “Are you alright, Desmond?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Desmond says, his bravado confident but Lucy doesn’t look particularly convinced.

“Warren,” Lucy calls, “I’m going to have Desmond rest.”

For a moment, Desmond thinks the doctor is going to argue, but then the older man seems to reconsider when the Animus suddenly made an angry-printer-like noise. Vidic sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose with one hand as the other makes a shooing motion in Lucy’s direction.

“How are you feeling?” Lucy asks the moment the door is closed behind them. Her uneasiness shows in the way her hands wrings in front of her. “Any disorientation? Nausea?”  

“Uh, a little headache, but otherwise, I’m good.” Desmond answers and the anxiety exuding from Lucy’s posture lessens somewhat. “What…exactly happened? I wasn’t in there long, right?”

Lucy clicks her tongue. “No, not long. As you saw, we ran into a hiccup.”

 _“I don’t care for your excuses! Just get it working!”_ Even with the door closed, they can both clearly hear Vidic’s shout.

 Lucy lets out an inaudible groan.

“Some hiccup.” Desmond observes skeptically. 

“We were trying to see how far we could get you into the memory sequence we needed.” Lucy admits as she turns around to pour the pitcher of water on the counter into a glass. Desmond accepts the glass and proffered red/blue Tylenol pills gratefully. “We couldn’t get you to that point though, so we tried setting you up to the latest compatible memory sequence, but…”

“But?” Desmond urges.

“But we lost you somewhere.” Lucy’s lips thin, a peculiar look flashing across her face, which makes Desmond startle before it vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. “It was only five minutes’ worth, but—”

“That was only five minutes?!” Desmond exclaims in surprise. It had hardly felt like that short a time. 

Lucy blinks. “How long did it feel like for you? No, better question: _where_ were you?”

“I was—”

* * *

  _“—and don’t mention the Black Room. Please. They can’t know I’m here.”_

 _Desmond can barely hear Clay from the dual voices of Lucy and Vidic echoing in his ears, but the trace of desperation and fear in the blonde’s voice catches and holds his attention in a vice._  

* * *

 “—in some white room.” Desmond says finally.

“Nowhere important, then?” Lucy presses but something in the seriousness in her expression gives Desmond pause.

“Not at all.”

Lucy studies him a moment longer before finally nodding in acquiesce and taking her leave with a meditative goodbye.

* * *

_“Alright, this is what I need you to do…”_

* * *

 “How did you know?” Desmond asks the moment he is loaded back into the Black Room.

“Really, not even a ‘hello’?” Clay pouts; relocating himself from the beach below to the cliff Desmond had appeared on in an instant that makes the younger man jump. “I’m hurt!”

“How did you do that? How did you know the door code to my room? The Animus console override? The security camera passwords? My _name?_ ”

“Hey, hey, slow down!” Clay laughs. “I’ll answer those questions just after you do one more thing for me.”

Desmond narrows his eyes. “Which would be…?”

“Critiquing my beach art!” Clay chirps, sweeping his arm out to the drawings along the sand. “My _therapeutic_ beach art!”

Shit. Desmond doesn’t have an artistic bone in his _body._ Nonetheless, the former bartender takes a cautious step closer towards the edge and feels his brows rise high at the sheer _amount_ of pattern and indiscernible text along the shore. This should have taken hours for Clay to do.

“It’s, uh…very nice?” Desmond comments lamely.

“And?” Clay urges.

“Um, very swirly?” He squinted. “Is that Japanese over there?”

“It’s Chinese _,_ you racist.” Clay corrects, rolling his eyes over Desmond’s squawk of indignation. “And trust me, it all looks much better in color.” He sighs theatrically. “But now that I think of it, I guess the surprise I left you is spoiled.”

Desmond raises an eyebrow. “You left me something?”

“Oh yes.” Clay says, but he looks a bit sheepish. “Eh, you’ll find it, I guess. Eventually. Sorry in advance.” He doesn’t look particularly sorry at all, though.

“…This isn’t like, flaming-bag-of-dog-poop tier surprise, is it?” Desmond eyes him dubiously.

“No!” Clay exclaims, before pausing, brows furrowed thoughtfully. “Maybe? Ever seen the SAW series?”

Desmond groans. “Great. Now I gotta worry about that _and_ about those assholes who kidnapped me.”

“Templars.”

Desmond freezes, shoulders going rigid. “What did you say?”

“The people who kidnapped you,” Clay meets the narrowed gold eyes evenly. “They’re Templars.” Lips twitching, Clay cocks his head to the side. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“…It was a passing thought.” Desmond says finally, expression conflicted. “When they came, I didn’t think—I thought they weren’t real.”

“Oh, they’re real.” Clay chuckles mirthlessly and for a moment, the look he shoots Desmond is almost pitying. “Just as real as the Assassins. Just as real as this ghost in the machine. Just as real as _everything they told you._ ”

Desmond’s jaw locks, the color gone from his face as he asks, “Who are you?

“I’m an Assassin.” Clay says simply and gives the other man a level look. “Just like you.”

“No, I’m not.” Desmond cuts in sharply. “I gave that up a long time ago.”

“But it obviously didn’t give you up.” Clay smirks, which earns him an irritated, but unquestionably resigned sigh from Desmond. He holds up his hands palms outward in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not here to judge, but I’m just saying that that didn’t work out too great for ya, did it?”

“And becoming one would have?” Desmond scowls.

“It wouldn’t have hurt.” Clay refutes, smiling easily. “Word traveled fast when you ran away, you know. Bill was _pissed_.”

Desmond grimaces. “You know my dad?" 

“Who doesn’t? He overlooked my training when I was recruited. Handed me off to people who took me under their wing and everything. It was tough, but…” Clay trails off, eyes faraway. 

“You liked it.” Desmond finishes for him, recognizing the odd tilt in Clay’s mouth as nostalgia.

“It gave me purpose.” Clay clarifies, but doesn’t elaborate, instead opting to wave the matter off haphazardly, eyes bright once again. “To each their own, I suppose, but enough of that. Templars got you and Assassin or not, you’re in deep shit.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Desmond says dryly.                          

“But lucky for you, you got someone on the inside (quite literally) who’s gonna watch your back.” The blonde states.

“And that’s why you’re here?” Desmond wonders. “To be my own guardian angel?”

Clay’s lips twitches, yet his eyes go very dark. “There’s no such thing.” 

Desmond doesn’t answer for a long time, mindful of the dip in Clay’s tone. Instead, he looks over Clay’s ‘art’ again, unnerved despite himself. They look like they ran on for miles because Desmond can see the carved beach stretch out far into the horizon. They are repetitive, though. He can conclude some as random doodles, but others—they look like diagrams, charts and schemata.

“What are they supposed to mean?” Desmond murmurs and regrets asking when something in Clay’s countenance shutters and closes like a castle portcullis. “Clay—?”

“A story.” Clay answers vacantly and perhaps it is the emptiness in the tone of his voice or the imitation of serenity in the curve of his mouth, but Desmond feels something sickly crawl up his spine. The feeling intensifies when Clay turns his head and looks at him with an expression that is mutually pained and relieved. “A very, very long story.”

“Is it the reason why you’re here?” Desmond asks around the stone in his throat.

“Ah, so you _can_ connect the dots.” Clay laughs, some of the playfulness returning into his voice. “Maybe I don’t have my work cut out for me.”

A little tension leaves Desmond. “C’mon, give me a little more credit than that.”

Clay hums jauntily but instead of answering, walks closer to the edge of the cliff. Each step is surer than the last and when the other man gets to the point where Desmond is one second away from yanking him back by the lapels of his coat (all the while yelling, “ _what are you, suicidal?!”_ ) Clay abruptly turns around. He doesn’t seem particularly alarmed by how close he is to the edge or by the incredulous expression on Desmond’s face. Instead, he looks quite as ease and the careless grins on his face shows it. 

“To answer your previous question: Yeah, sorta. And just as you’d expect,” Clay gestures to himself, the corners of his mouth strained and depreciative, “It doesn’t have a happy ending.”

Something like fear clenches inside Desmond.

“So, still interested in what this all means?” Clay queries, face open as if he had nothing left to lose. “Do you want to hear my story?”

So maybe it’s the bartender in him accustomed to lending an ear or maybe it’s because all Desmond could think at seeing Clay’s hand outstretched along the edge of the world is how incredibly lonely the man looked, but Desmond takes his hand anyways, even though everything in him urges him to flee.

“Yeah. Let’s hear it.”

And tell it, Clay does. 

* * *

It becomes something of a routine for Desmond to visit the Black Room after hours and for Clay to demonstrate his storytelling prowess. For Clay, it isn’t a bad deal. It sure beats the usual monotony and each of Desmond’s visits come with the added benefit of acquiring more means of keeping in touch with what is happening outside of the Black Room. Desmond is no code monkey, but under Clay’s directions, it isn’t long before they manage to rig the Black Room’s programming to connect and piggyback onto the Animus’s main audio and visual feeds.

It is a _vast_ improvement if Clay says so himself. Now, he can see and hear whatever goes on around the Animus (to a certain extent, of course.) It also means that Clay can peak into Desmond’s daily Animus sessions of Altair as well, which is _very_ entertaining (because Desmond absolutely _sucks_ at parkour).

Considering how slow time passes out in the real world compared to his virtual one, it wouldn’t have taken long to relay everything that needed to be told all in one go, but a large part of Clay is hesitant to. Slow and steady wins the race, he reasons, and if this is also his way of protecting his successor just a little bit longer, well, that’s his business.

(And maybe it is just nice not feeling so alone for a change.)

A part of Clay feels guilty though. With the mornings and afternoons dedicated to Desmond reliving Altair’s memories and nights occupied with secret visits to the Black Room, Desmond is practically in the Animus all day. Clay is comforted at least by the fact that visiting the Black Room causes no significant mental strain, but it doesn’t damper his anxiety. It is too easy for Clay to associate it with what the Templars had done to him.                    

Surprisingly, Desmond doesn’t look particularly concerned when Clay brings it up. If anything, the guy had actually seemed a little _embarrassed_ by it.

_“Don’t get me wrong, you’re an asshole, but you’re still good company.” Desmond says, the lack of worry in his voice adding to Clay’s agitation._

_“You flatter me, Des. Really feeling touched here, but you’ve been coming by every night and staying longer each time.” God knows how many times Clay has had to threaten Desmond out of the Black Room when they had cut it too close to Security’s scheduled patrol of the area. “It’s a little worrying, you know?”_

_“You said yourself that I won’t Bleed by being here.” Desmond reminds him before sighing, “but if you’re really sick and tired of my company, guess I can just stop coming altogether—”_

_“Hey, that’s not what I—” The immediate objection comes out a little more forcefully than intended and Clay colors slightly when Desmond grins triumphantly. Clay groans. “You know what? Yes. Go away and shut your face.”_

_“It’s nice—the company, I mean.” Clay admits once Desmond’s laughter has subsided. “I had my doubts, but you’re not too bad, Miles.”_

_“Right back at you, Kascamarak.”_

_Clay punches Desmond in the arm. “You sicken me.”_

_“You’re the one with the weird last name.”_

_“Shut up, uncultured swine.” Clay shoots back, but his voice is fond. It’s easy to fall back into their easy banter as if old friends even though they had just met only recently. It is so strange but so very **nice** that Clay wishes…_

_“Really though, I don’t mind. Sure beats hopping around Acre._ ” _Desmond hums thoughtfully._ “ _Besides, you’re also teaching me cool shit, so that’s a plus.”_

_He isn’t wrong. Clay’s pace of showing the Truth and freaky First Civilization shit allowed for a lot of free time, which had then used for whatever until it was time for Desmond to hop off._

_The blonde snorts, but the ball of tension that had been twisting in Clay’s chest slowly comes undone._ _“Yeah, yeah… I’m happy you’re interested in computer science, but don’t quit your day job.”_

_It had come as a surprise to Clay when Desmond had asked for lessons in programming after they had completed the adjustments to the Animus’ code. The guy hadn’t really seemed like the sort to dabble in it, but when Desmond had abruptly done a 180 from his previously flat reaction and fervently prodded for instruction, Clay was hard pressed to refuse._

_He **does** find it odd that Desmond had been adamantly against starting from the very beginning (someone isn’t a fan of Hello World, apparently) and instead asked some very specific questions, but Clay figures it due to their situation and Desmond’s obvious problem with authority than anything else. (This is clear from how often their conversations veered from ‘how-to-support-functions,’ to ‘how-to-interrupt-them.’) _

_“Whatever. Now, do you want more time brooding over how much life sucks—_ _(“Brooding? I’m not brooding.” “Fine, **sulking** ,”)—or are you going to teach me how to manually override the Animus’ admin controls?” _

_“Fine, fine, see if I ever worry about you again.” Clay faux sighs before an idea hits him and he smirks mischievously. “Or, alternatively, I could teach you how reset Vidic’s terminal password to Templar Eat My Ass.”_

_By how wide Desmond’s eyes go as soon as the words leave his lips, it’s easy to tell which the clear winner is._

Clay smiles inwardly at the memory and _Christ_ how unexpected is that? He had known that he would meet Desmond Miles and had known that he would end up helping him. He just never expected to _like_ the guy. 

Truthfully, he had known about Desmond long before he had ever gotten in Templar radar or been sucked into Juno’s mechanisms. Hell, _every_ assassin knew about the Mentor’s lost son. It was a touchy subject around one of the leading heads of their whole organization. Clay, whom had been trained by and in contact with the Miles patriarch for a majority of his career had known firsthand how cross and stony the man got at the mention of his wayward son.

Clay made it a healthy habit not to judge anyone without fully being able to evaluate his or her character, but even he couldn’t help feel just the smallest of resentment towards Desmond Miles for running away in the middle of the night like a dog with his tail between his legs. To someone like Clay, whom had found respite among the Assassins Order, it lowered his respect scale for Desmond Miles one or two times. 

But then he had met the guy, been very much delighted by his bird-of-a-feather cynicism and _well_ , out all the people Clay could have been stuck with to save the world, Desmond Miles isn’t the _worst._

And yet.

Clay just dearly, _dearly_ wishes they had met under better circumstances. 

* * *

Lucy doesn’t know what compels her to review the tapes. There isn’t any point to usually as she had specifically made it so the footage ran on a loop as to keep Desmond’s predicted excursions out of his room from unwanted eyes. In the same fold however, it also meant that Lucy herself didn’t know what he was up to, but that was irrelevant to her as it was not like Desmond could hurt himself or anything. (They had made very, _very_ sure of that.)

There is no real reason for her to snoop, but something about seeing how complacent Desmond had become worries her. That is why Lucy finds herself in her office that night, opening up video surveillance of the previous day, which has been the one time she had chosen to not loop.

Sighing, Lucy prepares herself for a long night, knowing full well that there is much she would have to scrutinize, before promptly stopping short when the screen protests angrily in front of her.

 _‘Corrupted?’_ Her brows furrow. That shouldn’t be right. She stares at the stuttering screen uncomprehendingly. How can an entire day’s worth of footage be so damaged? However, as she studies it further, it doesn’t look completely unsalvageable.

An hour later, Lucy’s efforts are rewarded with a semi-decent recording.

The more Lucy watches, the more foolish she feels for getting so worked up. Desmond doesn’t do much in his room save for lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling. Nothing looks out of order. She sees Desmond get up to go into the adjacent bathroom a couple hours in, but unfortunately, the next chunk of video is part of a sequence that Lucy had been unable to recover. She fast forwards past it, making a note to have their technicians review the— 

Wait, what is that?

Lucy rewinds the tape to the part where she can see Desmond back in full view. It is still a statically filled mess, but she can make out Desmond’s form on the bed. She sees him kneeling on the mattress, back to the camera and facing the wall above the headboard.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. This is…familiar.

The screen fizzes, signaling a time skip. A glance at the corner lets her know it is a six-minute skip. Desmond still has his back to the camera, but this time, he is closer to the wall. He raises his right arm; three fingers pulled back and tracing his index and middle finger across the blankness. She slows the recording, studying with bated breath at the invisible pattern he is drawing with his fingers. 

Lucy fumbles for a pen and still staring at the screen, mimics Desmond. They are wide loops, growing smaller and smaller with each rotation of his arm. Lucy doesn’t know how long she sits there, copying Desmond’s patient, repetitive movements until the screen flashes blankly for two seconds and skips 10 minutes forward to Desmond’s sleeping form.

The blonde blinks rapidly. Her wrist aches.

Then she looks down at Desmond’s drawing.

* * *

_“So, I get the feeling that you’re not being entirely truthful about your story.”_

_“Okay, I admit that me being a direct descendent of a biblical figure (whom was very much real; rest in peace your atheism) is pretty farfetched, but—“_

_“Not that!”_ A pause. _“Okay, yeah, maybe I still don’t quite buy that, but what I mean is when you talk about that First Civ chick—”_

_“Juno.”_

_“Yeah, her. How you’re telling me all this… You make it sound like it’s actually going to happen just because she said so.”_

_“She’s… pretty convincing.”_

_“And that’s what I mean. What you showed me… about the Truth and what she said would go down. Craziness of **that** aside, it doesn’t make sense. You were hostile towards her and then what, had a change of heart and went along with what she said?” _

_Defensively, “Yeah, so?”_

_“So,” A look. “That doesn’t sound like something you’d do. I bet she showed you something first to make you believe her. What was it?”_

_“…You know, you’re really good at looking dumb. I never would have considered that—”_

_Flatly, “Clay.”_

“…”

_“Juno showed you a lot more than you’ve been letting on.”_

_A scowl. “Okay, so I left things out. You caught me, but they’re just unimportant things you don’t need to know, so drop it.”_

_“Kind of weird that something so unimportant is making you all tight lipped.”_

_“You don’t understand!”_

_“That’s literally why I’m asking you right now, asshole!”_

_“And I can’t! It’ll mess everything up!”_

_“All because her space magic future vision says so? I think we’ve pretty much established that—”_

_“Just drop it!”_

_“—it’s pretty hit or miss considering that I’m here **now** , freaking months earlier than—”   _

_“IDIOT, I’M TRYING TO PROTECT YOU!”_

_“—What?”_

_“She didn’t show me everything, okay? I only saw up to the point where we were supposed to officially meet. But the part before that…and how Lucy—”_

A startled look. _“Lucy? What about Lucy?’”_

 _“Oh just—to hell with it.”_ A tired sigh. _“Rip it off like a band aid, I guess. It’s best if I showed you.”_

* * *

 “Tell me about the others.”

Lucy glances up from the console. “Hm?”

They are on Desmond’s third official session in the Animus. After that disastrous first day, Lucy had feared that their progress to find Altair’s map would be severely hindered, but fortunately, everything had gone according to schedule. The Animus doesn’t act up once. If anything, it’s working at optimal efficiency. (She makes a note to thank the tech guys for their work.)

Their subject is behaving himself as well. Truthfully, Lucy had expected a little more fight in him, but strangely, after the first sessions, Desmond is almost… subdued in comparison to his previous defiance. She had been concerned about a potential development into depression and had ordered the appropriate surveillance on him, but thankfully, nothing of the sort had ensued.

“About the other subjects.” Desmond emphasizes, drawing Lucy out of her thoughts. He is sitting on the Animus and Lucy makes a brief note that his pallor is slightly off. She wonders at the possibility of success of haggling Warren for longer breaks between Animus sessions.

“I’m not particularly allowed to tell you about them.” Lucy replies matter-of-factly. She gives him an apologetic smile. “Patient confidentially and all that.”

“C’mon, not even a little? Anything on Subject One? Or Subject Five?” Desmond groused, sprouting numbers at random. “Subject Sixteen?”

Through the reflexive tightness of her throat, she thinks she hears a shift in his tone at the last one, but when she looks up from her work again, Desmond is still looking at her earnestly. She vaguely realizes that Warren has been in his office the entire day and attributes his absence to Desmond’s sudden desire to pry.

“Why the sudden interest?”

“Just curious.” Desmond shrugs. “You knew them, didn’t you?”

Lucy purses her lips. “Somewhat.”

The former bartender cocks his head. “Did they last long?" 

She nearly drops her clipboard. “Desmond!”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable question! Vidic _did_ threaten to put me in a coma, remember?”

“Good thing you complied then.”

“Just like the others?”

Lucy lets out a tired breath. “Desmond…”

“Excuse me for being just a little on the morbid side seeing as my life only has as much value as your project does.” Desmond rolls his eyes, but his hands are balled tightly into fists on his lap.

“…I wouldn’t have let him do that to you.” Lucy confesses gently. She eyes him carefully, noting the rigid set of his shoulders and wanting dearly to reassure him, squeezes his knee, making him look up at her. “Believe me, Desmond, I would keep you safe. I _will_ keep you safe.”

Desmond goes still.

“You’ll protect me, huh?” Desmond murmurs softly but though it is said pensively, his expression is carefully closed. 

“It’s getting late.” Lucy says and Desmond takes the cue to obediently follow her to his room. She hesitates at the door, feeling the need to say _something_ but not knowing what. “…Sleep well, Desmond.”

“You too, Lucy.” Desmond hums, but lies in bed staring up at the ceiling long after she’s gone.

* * *

Kindness isn’t something that Desmond sees much in people.

Desmond isn’t used to it. His father had never been one to sugarcoat his faults. It had made Desmond resent the man in his childhood, but Desmond had grown to be thankful for it. It made him thick skinned. Forced him swallow the bitter pill of reality that _the world wasn’t kind to anybody_ and the sooner Desmond realized that, the sooner he would retaliate in kind.

Desmond can see a little bit of his father in Clay’s bluntness. He doesn’t beat around the bush. He pushes himself into Desmond’s discomfort, twisting the knife of his words into Desmond’s skin. Desmond should hate him for that. Had wanted to hate him for that.

And when Desmond corners him one night, unrelenting in his pursuit to interrogate the older man on the small, seemingly insignificant holes in Clay’s story, Desmond isn’t surprised when Clay bites back, unyielding and just as underhanded in his defense.

And yet.

When Clay says he killed himself—says how he disfigured his arm into a crimson painter’s plate with a pen and smeared his blood on the walls _because I did it for you are you happy I did it for you so that you could SEE—_

It’s meant to hurt him. Clay’s mouth curls cruelly and every single detail he utters is meant to hurt him and make him lose his composure—

It reminds him of his _dad_ and Desmond can feel his teeth ache and his chest burn.

And yet.

When Clay’s tirade is done, the blonde is stiff legged, shoulder squared, and chin high, and it reminds Desmond all too much of his father _but_ —

 _He doesn’t turn his back to Desmond._

_Rip it off like a band-aid, Clay had said._ He catches the reluctance in the firm set of Clay’s jaw, sees the careful caution along his eyes.

He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t force Desmond to leave. It’s like he wants to see if _Desmond_ _can_ _take it._

_Rip it off like a Band-Aid._

It’s a kindness, Desmond realizes. It’s not until times passes and he gets the whole story in its entirety does he comprehend how far to an extent it truly goes.

_And Clay is very, almost unbearably, kind._

* * *

“Warren, I’m serious.”

“You’ll be happy to know that your concern has been duly noted, Ms. Stillman.” Lucy wrings her hands in agitation, wanting to further state her case but knowing by the reprimand in Warren’s tone that he won’t be swayed. She hates when Warren gets like this.

“But we can’t just ignore the symptoms and hope they go away.” Lucy argues nonetheless. She takes an unsteady breath, mind still in turmoil with what she had seen last night. “’We’ve seen this sort of thing happen before and what came after. What if _that_ happens to Desmond?”

“Oh, yes, you’re referring to Subject Sixteen—truly a tragedy.” Warren waves her concern away, not even bothering to match her lowered voice, but Lucy is immediately hyperaware of how Desmond has frozen at the door to his room. “But Mr. Miles _isn’t_ like Sixteen. He’s been such a good participant for us so far so I doubt he’ll be following in that nasty business or any of Sixteen’s silly little—”

“Stop saying it like it’s his name.” Desmond says suddenly. His voice is unassumingly soft but from the sudden still of the room and the edge of _dangerdangerdanger_ lining his words, he may as well have been screaming across the room.

  
“Mr. Miles…?”

“His name is Clay.” Desmond meets Warren’s eyes evenly. He bares his teeth. “ _Fucking_ **_use_** _it._ ”

“How do you know that name?” Lucy whispers, numbly. She feels something like bile claw up her throat.

“Perhaps you’re right.” Warren says slowly, drawing Lucy from her stunned silence. His eyes are narrowed, mouth set into a firm line as he regards Desmond speculatively. His jaw locks and as if coming to a decision, turns away to leave. “Meet me in my office after you’re done here, Lucy.”

* * *

  **[Play Audio Recording]**

_“—is possible?”_

_“They’re only very distantly related. There is absolutely no way Desmond could have known about him, Bleeding Effect or no. I’m not certain, but maybe the Animus bugged and leaked information or he could have subconsciously gotten it from the Animus’ memory bank, or—”_

_“You’re saying it can only be caused by a technical issue then. Will this hinder his ability to sync with Altair’s memories?”_

_“It shouldn’t.”_

A grunt. _“I’d rather fix it now than worry about it later, but it’s hardly an option to do a wipe with our progress so far.”  
_

_“What do you want me to do?”_

_“We’ll wait until Mr. Miles finds us the map and then do what you will. Wipe it, reformat it, or do a fresh install; I don’t care. Just have that memory core scrubbed clean before we go to the next phase.”_

**[End Audio Recording]**

“…”

**[Audio Recording Deleted]**

* * *

_“Do you have any regrets?”_

_“Des, I committed suicide. What do you think?”_

_“You’re not really answering the question.”_

_“Well, it’s kind of a stupid question.”_ A pause. _“Of course I have regrets. I didn’t want to go out that way but, well.”_ A chuckle. _“Oh come on, it’s already happened. No use being all gloomy about it.”_

_“You just—you talk about it so flippantly.”_

_“Well, it kinda helps that I’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with it.”_

_“Clay…”_

_“I miss it, okay? Is that what you want to hear? God knows how much I do.”_ There is a pensive pause. _“I… would have liked seeing my parents. Hell, even seeing my Dad wouldn’t be so bad. Just like you and your old man, we weren’t close, but I was still his only kid. Thinking of him and Ma with no body to mourn for…”_

_“No body?!”_

_“Oh, I didn’t tell you about that, did I? Well, it’s kind of hard to find a body once it’s gone to the Tyrrhenian Sea from the Tiber.” A light laugh. “Could you imagine if they did though? That would NOT be a fun open casket."_

_“Stop it.”_

_“Hm?_

_“You shouldn’t joke about that.”_

_“…I think I have the right to joke about whatever I want, Miles.”_

_“But this is different! You can’t just because you’re—”_

_“—because I’m what? Dead? Newsflash, I **AM** dead. I am LITERALLY sleeping with the fishes.”_

_“I **know** , but I can’t stop thinking you **aren’t** when you’ve been here all along! It doesn’t—it’s not right!”_

_“Des, I’m just a virtual construct of the original Clay.” A hesitant pause. “I’m... touched…that you think of me like that, but I’m not /really/ alive. Original Clay’s long dead and I am not going to touch the philosophical shit surrounding AI and whatnot, but the fact of the matter is that by all accounts, I **am** dead.”_

_“You shouldn’t have gotten into this shitfest in the first place. If you hadn’t—”_

_“I’d be still alive? Right, I wasn’t quite in the best of places before I got involved in any case, so doubt that would have mattered.” A tired sigh. “Look, Des… all the things I’ve done to get to this point… Those were the choices I made. Do you think I regret joining up with the assassins even though it led me to this? Do you think that even after all that Juno showed me, that I was forced into doing what I did out of some mind control mumbo jumbo? Hell no.”_

_“We all make choices, Desmond, but in the end, our choices make us. Who do you think they have made me?”_

_A second ticks by, followed by another before quietly and fervently,_

_“Someone who deserves better.”_

* * *

 “I’m pulling him out. I’m getting weird temperature readings. I think the Animus is overheating.”

“Again?! How long this time?!”

“It’s hard to tell. Probably not as long as yesterday’s.”

“Damn. Well, at least we made a lot of progress today. How long until we have the map?”

“Not long. At this rate… by the end of tomorrow’s session.”

“Excellent, and the other matter?”

“I’ll schedule it for tomorrow night.”

* * *

  _“C’mon Desmond, you should be going.”_

_“It’s only like what, 4 am outside?”_

_“Five, and I heard what Lucy said about those bags under your eyes. Go get some sleep that’s NOT in the Animus.”_

_“It’s not that late—”_

_“I’ll download the most raunchy, dirtiest, porno to your head.”_

_“…You can do that?”_

_“Out. Don’t tempt me.”_

_”Fine, okay! Just… help me understand how these functions work first.”_

_“Christ, I’m spoiling you. Let me see that…Seriously? Damn, you just want to fuck with Vidic’s computer.”_

_“To be fair, it’s a nice computer.”_

_A hearty laugh. “I am a bad influence on you. Okay, you wanted to know about interrupts and… schedulers, huh? Well they’re something like this…”_

* * *

“Morning Desmond, time to—are you feeling alright?”

“Hm?” Desmond blinks up blearily at Lucy who is worrying her lip. He rubs the crust out of his eyes, yawning as he tries to untangle his legs from the course sheets. “Sorry. Yeah, just…couldn’t sleep last night.”

She takes in the state of disarray the pillows and sheets are in. “So I see.”

Desmond releases a breathy laugh, but says nothing as he follows her out of his room. He is glad that Lucy makes no further attempt of polite conversation until the Animus is booted up.

His heart pounds fitfully in his chest.

“Last memory block. Are you ready?”

 _No._ “Yeah.”

With a shuddering breath, Desmond lays down on the Animus.

Today, he will find Altair’s map. 

* * *

“Remember when I asked if you had any regrets?”

The question, asked immediately upon Desmond’s materialization into the Black Room, interrupts the greeting on Clay’s lips.

“Well hi to you too. We really need to work on your good manners.” Clay admonishes, but when Desmond’s stiff expression doesn’t change, he falters, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, what about it?”

“When I was young, nothing made much sense. I didn’t get what my parents’ deal was. They were always—pushing me—towards somewhere I didn’t want to go. It was mostly dad who did it. I didn’t… I didn’t feel like his son when things got bad and the way he acted… it—I guess it fucked me up. And I didn’t _get_ it. Any of it."

"I needed to leave and when I did, I never once looked back, but…but somewhere along the line, running away became something I did with everything I couldn’t handle. That is the story of my life. I was—am…selfish.” Desmond’s lips thin, gaze resolutely fixed on the spot over Clay’s shoulder.

“What was I even doing? Had I been spending my life avoiding making hard decisions? But my time here…” The brunet sighs. “I wish I had been more patient. I wish I had taken the time to _understand._ Only one week here but I feel like I’ve learned more than I have the past goddamn nine years." 

“Desmond…”

“I could have done better.” Desmond continues hollowly. “Like what you did for me even though its hard as _shit_ to repay back until I _realized_ …” The former bartender stops abruptly and chuckles apologetically, meeting Clay’s eyes with some embarrassment. “Sorry, I’m not making much sense, am I?”

“No shit.” The blonde snorts, but when he runs a hand through his hair, it’s shaking. Something about Desmond’s words and wan demeanor has him reflexively on guard. He regards the younger man warily. “What are you getting it?”

_Dangerdangerdanger._

The scar across Desmond’s lips twitches upwards. “I guess I just wanted to thank you.”

**_Dangerdangerdanger._ **

Clay stills. “For what?” 

“For making me realize that I’ve always had a choice.” Desmond meets Clay’s eyes but this time, the expression on his face is unmistakably warm as he speaks, “For making something actually make sense for once.” 

Clay’s stomach drops. “Desmond… why are you—”'

 

* * *

**[WARNING: DELETION NOW IN PROGRESS]**

* * *

 

Clay staggers as icy fear douses his body. He gasps raggedly, mouth hanging open in horror at the echoed mechanical words.

“W-What…?!”

No, this isn’t supposed to happen. Neither he nor Desmond had wandered where they weren’t allowed to go in the Black Room. How could a deletion have triggered now?! Clay spins around, watching the obelisks littered around the land crumble piece by piece until turning into lines of white code when they hit the land. The ocean churns angrily. He isn’t ready for this! There is still so much to do and Desmond—

“Clay.”

The blonde jerks at the call.

—looks far too calm. The Black Room is falling before their very eyes but Desmond— _the idiot_ —is staring at it all happen vacantly, as if they both aren’t about to get deleted from the Black Room. Didn’t he know what was happening?! Cursing, he takes two steps towards Desmond and yanks hard, pulling the man away from a patch of land that is already disappearing into white.

“It’s scheduled for deletion! I don’t how or why but—we need to get you out! Right now!” If Desmond is still in the Black Room when the process finishes… Clay shudders to think of it. He knows there is a back door situated nearby. He takes Desmond’s hand and peers around wildly until he spots it glittering in the distance. It isn’t far. If they got to it, Desmond can get back to his body and—

Clay is yanked back when Desmond digs his feet into the ground, resisting the motion.

“Desmond, what are you _doing?!_ You have to go!” Clay yells angrily. “Come on!” 

“I can’t, Clay! Not… not yet!” Desmond jerks forward when Clay gives another harsh pull, but stubbornly holds his ground. He looks up into the sky as if waiting on something that Clay can’t see.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! Do you know what happens if you’re caught in this deletion?! I do and it’s not a fucking good time!” Clay shoots Desmond a furious look when the other man refuses to budge again, mouth set in a firm line. 

Fine then! If Desmond in his currently deranged _stupid_ mind isn’t going to move, then Clay is just going to _fucking make him_. Clay still has a trick up his sleeve; he still has a manual reboot.

He mentally reaches out, wrapping his fingers mentally around the activation sequence but—

Nothing. 

It isn’t working.

Desmond is still _here._ Clay tries _again, again, again_ with increasing horror, frantically trying to execute the process, but being denied each and every time by the system. 

Why the hell isn’t it— 

He feels a hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s not going to work, Clay.” Desmond says softly and gives him a small grin, scarred lips quirking upwards consolingly, kindly—

_Guiltily._

“What did you do?” Clay whispers hollowly. There’s a ringing in his ears.

“Vidic ordered Lucy to wipe the Animus’ memory core.” Desmond explains quietly. “When I found out… Can you understand why I had to do it?”

“ _D_ _ESMOND, WHAT DID YOU DO?”_ Clay roars. He grabs the collar of Desmond’s hoodie with the intention to very much literally shake the answers out of the younger man when—

Wait.

_“Unfortunately. The Black Room’s not much use for anything save for some data partitioning.”_

_“Now, do you want more time brooding over how much life sucks or are you going to teach me how to manually override the Animus’ admin controls?”_

Desmond’s very specific questions.

His interest to learn code.

The pieces fall together in his head.

“No…” Clay feels weak as he stares at Desmond, eyes wide. “You _didn’t!_ ”

“I can’t save the Black Room,” Desmond says, gold eyes wide and _so, so_ earnest, “but I can save _you_.”

Clay barely has time to react—barely has any time to register the feeling of being _absolutely cut off from control of the Black Room’s systems_ before—

_“DON’T—”_

 

* * *

“I’m glad I met you, Clay.”

* * *

 

Desmond Miles is…quiet. That’s Shaun’s first impression of the man. He hardly speaks, doesn’t so much as give Rebecca, Shaun, or even _Lucy_ the time of day even though the woman had essentially broke him out of Abstergo. Naturally, it elicits Shaun’s ire. It’s not just the fact that Shaun’s _prickly_ around new people, but a new teammate with apparently _zero_ gratitude from the jaws of death rubs him the wrong way. 

So can he help it if he acts just a _little_ biting towards their most recent novice acquisition? It’s a character flaw for him (‘Quirk,’ Rebecca mouths to Lucy impishly to which Shaun pretends to not see because he has a soft spot certain raven haired engineers) but Shaun doesn’t care. Shaun is a firm believer in making boundaries known. They were going to be a _team_ and as such, Shaun _will_ make sure that it works out.  

So when Lucy begins making introductions, Shaun immediately sizes Desmond Miles up, takes in his crooked structure, how the man warily eyes at everything like it’ll harm him and is glad—so very, very glad that he had chosen not to wear anything around his neck.

Shaun isn’t even trying to be mean. He hardly even gets though one sentence before he hears Rebecca’s surprise, Lucy’s shriek, and his vision is obscured by very sharp, _very angry_ pair of eyes glaring into his own. The front of his shirt is bunched up in Desmond’s fist and Shaun chokes.

It pretty much spirals down from there.

Shaun does his homework. He does it _very, very_ well. By all accounts, by all reports, Desmond Miles shouldn’t be violent. He isn’t disturbed, malicious, or a deviant to society. There’s utterly nothing of concern in his dossier. 

And yet.

_“That’s not my name, asshole. It’s Cl—” The novice freezes, shudders, and gasps all at once but Shaun doesn’t give him a moment to recover. He aims a kick at Desmond’s shins and twists himself away when the novice’s grip loosens._

_“What is your problem?!” Shaun yells between breaths. His heart beats erratically. This isn’t the Desmond Miles they had been expecting. He feels Rebecca pat at him worriedly, all the while shooting apprehension looks at Desmond._

_“Desmond!” Lucy has her hands firmly on Desmond’s chest, keeping him well away from Shaun. “Calm down!”_

_Desmond ignores her._

_“That’s not my name!” He snarls again._

The event causes Shaun to reevaluate. A week he has been holed up in Abstergo and to be brought to them with major behavioral changes is a source of concern.

_“Is it the Bleeding Effect?” Rebecca asks, cautious of the way Desmond twitches in his sleep. The man had practically passed out the moment they had gotten him to calm down._

_Lucy stares Desmond and doesn’t answer for a long moment. “I… I don’t know for certain. Everything was fine until this afternoon and I made sure he wasn’t in the Animus for longer than he should.”_

_“You’re sure?” It’s Shaun that asks this time. He’s rubbing at his neck, grimacing slightly._

_“There was this one time but…” Lucy immediately clams up and Shaun could have sworn she stopped breathing for a moment. “It was just once though. Just that one time.”_

It is _most definitely_ a concern, but there’s really nothing they can do about it. They need Desmond’s genetic memories. Shaun hates dawdling as much as he hates jazz (which is a _lot_ ) but even he’s hesitant to place Desmond into the Animus 2.0 if it will make the man even more unhinged than he already is. (Also because really not looking forward to being assaulted again if can help it.)

It’s fortunate then that later when Desmond regains consciousness, he’s a little more collected than before. He doesn’t look ‘fine’ per se, but when Lucy looks exceptionally more relieved than when they’d arrived, that has to be a good thing, right?

In the end, it’s decided that they’ll start looking into Desmond’s genetic memories the next day. Again, Shaun has the kneejerk reaction of _we-don’t-have-all-the-time-in-the-world-you-know_ but even he has to admit that their novice doesn’t look at all in good health. Shaun can’t even bring himself to suggest a trial session in the Animus 2.0 to a man with dark bags underneath his eyes and near sickly pallor to his skin in good conscience.

Still, while doesn’t like the guy, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t pity him just a little. So when Shaun sets a bowl of heated canned soup near the—Shaun can only assume—daydreaming novice and moves to eat with the others, he’s can’t help but give the man some brownie points when Desmond speaks up and _apologizes._

“No harm done.” Shaun says and means it. He scrutinizes Desmond, notes the pattern, and recognizes the trauma when he sees it. Despite his better judgment, he ends up bringing his own bowl into Desmond’s little corner with the excuse to ‘let the gal pals catch up’. Rebecca shoots him a knowing look as he strolls off, but its a little worth it to see the surprise in Desmond’s eyes when he brings a chair over. 

Desmond doesn’t speak and Shaun’s not one for small talk, so to break the silence, he begins to rattle off details of their little operation—the location they’re holed up at, what’s been going on the last week, why the Ancient Romans were actually gigantic prudes. The last one isn’t actually relevant, but it garners attention and distracts Desmond enough until he blinks in surprise at his empty bowl, which before the subject, had been prodded at with relative disinterest. (Shaun counts that as a win.)

Goodnights are soon bidden and when Shaun clasps Desmond’s arm as he passes, it’s to firmly drill into their novice’s head to _start taking care of himself better because its only going to get harder here on out._

“Your body is your temple and all that jazz.” Shaun tells him, grimacing slightly at the end. “Got it, mate? You’re already giving Lucy gray hairs.”

Lucy makes an affronted noise, but the significant thing is how Desmond freezes, looking as if Shaun had backhanded him. Slowly, almost mechanically, Desmond nods, before muttering a quick excuse when Shaun releases his arm.  

“This is going to be harder than we thought, isn’t it?” Rebecca murmurs when Desmond is out of earshot.

Like Lucy, Shaun can only sigh.

* * *

He blinks once, twice, leans closer towards the mirror and just _looks_ at _himself._ He swallows thickly, watching his Adam’s apple bob and when he brings his had up to touch the mirror _his skin is unmarred—pale and perfect and not stringy, stringy RED—_

_“Don’t do this!”_

_“I’m saving you, you idiot!”_

Shaun is right. He doesn't look all too good. The knowledge brings shame down his throat. 

“Sorry.” The reflection follows his movement and his chest burns like an open wound _because **there**   **there there** **you** **are** but_ —he stops, holds a breath, and then releases. He looks at the shadows under his eyes, purses his lips. “Sorry.”

_“Your body is your temple.” Shaun had said._

And the  _irony_ of that!

“He’s right, isn’t he?” His reflection has the gall to roll its eyes and the assassin’s lips thin into a strained grin that looks far, far too foreign on his face. 

“Wouldn’t you say…?”

* * *

_"You’re the idiot!” Clay yells but it comes out in the end like a muffled sob. He grasps at the lapels of Desmond’s hoodie, feeling it fall apart stitch by stitch beneath his very fingers. “No, no, no, no, NO!”_

_It would hurt. Clay knew all along that it would hurt. Didn’t Desmond know what this would mean? Didn’t he know that this wasn’t how it was supposed to go? It was supposed to be him!_

_Not Desmond._

_“My choice, Clay.” Desmond murmurs and smiles guilelessly into Clay's neck. “What does that make me?”_

“Your body is your temple.” Shaun had said.

_My temple._

* * *

 

_“…Desmond?”_

 

* * *

 


End file.
